


the hand that chokes the unstable

by StripySock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Choking, Dissociation, M/M, Undernegotiated Kink, later seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: It's not so much that Sam wants to be choked, or that Dean wants to choke him. It's that this is as remorseless a pattern as any they've played out.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 24
Kudos: 73
Collections: SPN_Masquerade Spring 2020





	the hand that chokes the unstable

**Author's Note:**

> SPN-Masquerade fill for the prompt: _It's not so much that Sam likes being choked, but he likes feeling alive afterwards. Dean hates doing it a) because he enjoys it and b) he's terrified. It's a penance for both of them._
> 
> For additional notes please click the end notes
> 
> Many thanks to RogueFaerie for looking this over!

The bedspread is about as ugly as everything else is in the room and half as clean, the sort of dive where even Winchesters usually thought twice about sitting on the beds without a good layer of plastic sheet between ass and cover. It's not the beds though that Dean's looking at, or the bags Sam's slung on the floor, with a tell-tale clink at the bottom of one of them. It's the rope looped around the bedpost, innocuous if it'd been hanging from a tree, a little loop of rope for a kid to swing on or a witch to swing from, and he can't stop looking, eyes drawn back, fixated on the smooth ends tucked inside each other, the dark sheen of the strands.

It's not that they plan this, things have to get bad before it comes to this point. Sam can't ask, Dean can't offer. To talk about it would break the fragile illusion that there's really a choice. Here now, it's inevitable, unavoidable, every step they've taken today has led to this.

Dean's stomach heaves violently, once, and he knows without any conscious thought that if he does this sober, he might scream and never stop. He feels it in the same twist of his guts as he keeps hell dreams, a little black hole of doubt and misery, and a sturdy belief that it's better that the sun doesn't come up at all on scenes like this. But Dean owes him this. 

Sam's ahead of him, rifling through the bag until he finds the bottle, quick pour of Jack into two shot glasses, and Dean thinks of what he should say. _Stop_. Sam's a lightweight when he drinks spirits neat on an empty stomach, and Dean isn't, too well used to it, and Sam's carefully folding the situation into inescapable layers here, winding it softly round Dean like a rope that he can't break, tucking in closer to his neck. The bourbon burns, and the second shot burns and the third shot burns less, but instead ignites in his gut a smouldering spark, and Sam's taken the bottle away or Dean would drink more and fan that flame into something that might get him through this with something approximating sanity. Dean can't ever afford to let himself drink like the first time again. That would be too easy and too dangerous both.

Sam's necked his own singular shot, less in preparation, more in solidarity, raises it high in an ironic salute, and licks the rim of the glass clean, and Dean feels that jostle in his belly with the whisky, add fuel to the little bit of flame.

They should have quit the first time, but Sam's quietly inexorable, and Dean can give him this. It’s a small restitution to allow Sam the right to choke out at his hands, and if Dean wants to die every time, well he's wanted to die for years now, this is nothing new, just a different shape of damned. So he cuts himself off, after the third shot, and looks at his hands instead.

"Hey," Sam says, and Dean responds instinctively, chin up, cock up, hands up, ready to not defend himself. Sam's flushed, hot look of it all the way down his chest, half alcohol, half bravado, all certainty. He's got his shirt and shoes off, socks as well. Feet bare against the dark carpet, and he's all scratched up down his chest, deep bruises down his side, a hunt gone semi-wrong, they're getting old or going green.

The positions they take are familiar, usual. Sam on his back, Dean on his knees, spread over Sam's hips. If they were fully naked, Sam's dick would be pushing into the groove of Dean's thigh, but they're not. Dean kisses Sam, just for the look of it, the feel of it, the way Sam opens up into his mouth, ready and uncomplicated, sucks on Dean's tongue, bites at his lips until he's sore, blood pounding through them. He can feel the soft pool of the blood, ripe and flushed, drags his mouth over Sam's throat, fingers following behind, the little divot of Sam's jaw, the hard strong line of his neck, so impossibly frail under Dean's fingers, he could crush it in a heartbeat. 

He kisses Sam's jaw, watches the tender swallow of his adam's apple against the paleness of his throat. Sam's hair is mostly tucked back behind his ears, but there's a strand of it on his cheek, dark with instinctual sweat. Dean's shared a car with Sam for years, rooms since he can remember, could close his eyes in a line up and pick Sam up by scent alone, the heavy salty smell of excitement, the too musky pungency of him after two days of driving.

Sam turns his head a little, a wordless ask, and Dean bites down the tendon, teeth scraping down the skin, doesn't leave a mark behind. If he imagines it, he can see the marks from last time, not on the skin, but underneath. The old dead blood pooling underneath, the lividness of the skin over. Not from this, here Dean's teeth are gentle, only the barest brush of them over Sam's skin. Sam's the biter, when he has a mind to it. Dean's woken up to the crush of Sam's teeth, the hard relentless gnaw of his mouth over Dean's skin, curtains closed so they can block this out, not a sliver of sun intruding on an alien world. He's worn the marks underneath his clothes, felt the dull sting of them as they healed. His forearm aches dully, once a distant memory.

 _Do you remember?_ Sam said once, on his belly, sprawled over Dean's thighs, fingers tracing across Dean's hips. _you used to have a scar here._ Dean doesn't remember that, he's been wiped clean before, a blank slate, skin made ready for a new set of memories, a new set of scars. Sam remembers for him, has always been good at the little things, memories and multitudes packed away in his too busy mind.

 _No_ he'd said, too intent on the way Sam looked, the closeness of him, the heavy warmth of him between his legs, close enough for Dean to seize and keep forever, the grinding desire that wears his jaw down with the need to not say it. He can't fill the hard empty ache inside himself, doesn't know how to swallow Sam up and keep him safe inside. Wonders if Sam knows that as well, files it inside in another little box, if with the knowledge of every scar on Dean's body, he's catalogued his soul as well.

Dean's at Sam's collar bone now, can feel the bone through the skin underneath his cheek, drags his tongue along it, and Sam's hips are moving under him. Dean can't remember why they're not naked, comes back to Sam's mouth to kiss him, and Sam's ready for it, hands grasping at Dean's skull, pulling him closer, one hand in his hair. Dean's tempted to get lost in it, forget the rest of it, but Sam's restless underneath him, hips moving, hard insistence of his dick, the scrape of his fingers down Dean's arm a reminder.

Dean breaks the kiss, gets his own t-shirt off, feels the lack every time of the solid weight of the amulet against his chest. After all these years, he still feels more naked without it. He can't resist the urge to dip down and press up against Sam, warmth against warmth, like he can sink into him this way. Feels the shudder of Sam's belly, taut flex of it against Dean, faint shiver running across his skin, like Sam can sense the impulse, repels him instinctually, and some marks might never leave, even if they fade, because Dean can feel the echo of an old pathetic anger run through him and quickly die.

He hides his eyes from Sam, bites at an easier target, Sam's nipples, feels like clockwork how Sam's hand sinks into his hair, as though unsure whether to pull him away or press him closer. Dean doesn't give him the option, sucks at the flesh until Sam's moving against him, a spasmodic twitch upwards. Dean's marking time before the inevitable, wants every scrap he can get out of this, to drain Sam dry and hollow in ways he can't explain, before he has to give it back.

Getting the jeans off is more difficult, Sam moving in a sharp twist of motion, Dean's hands a little nerveless, alien things at the end of his arm, like he's already disassociating them from what he wants, from what Sam wants. Kicking them off, and the boxers as well, leaves them naked together, Sam flushed and hard, heavy weight of him against his stomach. Dean's pleased in an obscure way, an unintentional validation.

Palms the thick weight of Sam, big as the rest of him, spreads the little blurt of pre-come across the head, watches Sam throw his head back and show his neck. He can feel himself, hard as well, but as though from a distance, everything focused on the feel of Sam in his hand, the sharp edge of Sam's jaw with his face turned away, flexed, perfect line of his neck. It's like there's a veil between him and everything else, he's operating mechanically, stroking Sam in a semi hand-job, thrusting his own dick against Sam's, an empty silence around him pressing in on his ears.

He looks away, at the tight press of their dicks against each other, the world coming back into focus gradually, can feel the way they rub together, the harsh inhale of Sam's breath as Dean jerks them both together. Sam's fingers are restless, push into Dean's hips, walk over his flanks, rub over his nipples until Dean's desperate for more, for Sam's hands proper, wherever he wants to put them. Then Sam's fingers brush over Dean's neck, hand firm and familiar around his jugular, not even a hint of constriction, just tracing his fingers down, and Dean can feel the air freeze in his lungs.

The next few minutes are a blur, needed lube, discarded condoms. They could do it without any of this. Could be fully clothed, just a hell-chasm away from being brothers, but this makes it easier to hide for Dean. He can feel Sam consciously unclench around him, pure willpower keeping himself lax, enough for Dean to get a couple of fingers in and fuck him, for Sam to move up and into it, like he's used to the hurt. Dean wants to suck Sam, get close enough to touch and taste him properly, but he'll come long before the end if he does,

Fucking Sam is a little bit like being fucked by Sam, it’s hard and Dean will take it all ways as long as it’s Sam. He gets Sam open, without pretence, eyes closed and head tossed back onto the pillow, mouth open and pained, and he can't resist it, will do anything for this. Screws in harder, deeper, lets the warmth penetrate the wall around him, keeps his eyes down away from Sam’s neck, looks at the sight of Sam stretched around him, the hard strength of his thighs, the solidness of the arms that are helping hold Dean up. Can hear the long exhale as Dean bottoms out, tucks his hips as close to Sam as he can get. Sam's legs are long enough to curl around him and hold Dean close, strong enough to hold onto him and Dean takes advantage of it, fucks him like he wants to.

Sam's eyes are half-open now, fixed on Dean, as he can see when his gaze creeps upwards. There's nothing disturbed about the way Sam looks, he's as put together as Dean is falling apart, and despite his initial hesitation, Dean wants this, almost as much as he hates it. Hates that every fibre of himself is begging for this as much as he wishes it wasn’t. Wouldn’t be able to explain anything about it. Just knows. Wants Sam falling apart, unable to control himself, wants the sweet dig of need as deep in Sam's gut as it is in Dean's, and there's only one way to get that. The silence is back in his ears, the disconnection between his hands and him and Sam. He's on the other side of a glass wall, scrabbling to get through, yet grateful for the barrier.

It's like a dream, on the other side of that glass, like he's watching some other Dean fuck the same Sam, some other Dean, lean forward until their hips are jammed together, and Sam's shaking with the effort of taking it, then take Sam's throat in his hands, the span of it just crossing, Sam tilting up under his hands, chin back like he's been waiting for this. From a distance he can feel the delicateness of the skin, the way Sam swallows under his palm, fragile ephemeral bobbing of his throat, sucking in deep. His bottom lip feels numb as he feels Sam flutter under his fingertips, his whole body alien, overwhelming surge of _wrong_ flooding through him.

It's not for him. He reminds himself of that, as he presses in inexorably, watches Sam's mouth open wider soundlessly, the panicked tremor under his fingers, the way that Sam digs his fingernails into his own skin, eyelashes fluttering closed, choked hitches of his breath, only a little air getting through. His hips don't need a mind to keep the rhythm going, he's fucking in and out mindlessly, a hidden metronome.

There's a thudding in the back of his brain, a low dull feeling, and he feels like he's choking himself all of a sudden, on spit and air. The way Sam _looks_ , the slow flush of him, dark lashes on his cheek, the way he's struggling unconsciously now, jerking onto Dean's cock and up into his hands, and still not fighting him off, still letting him have this, hands lashed firmly into the bed sheets as he fights for his air, and Dean loosens up for a second, can feel every inch of the ragged breath Sam heaves in, see the deep swell of his chest as he seizes the moment, his dick sandwiched between them hard and insistent.

He doesn't want this. _He doesn't_. He doesn’t know which half of what he feels is a lie. Can’t really say that he doesn’t want it. Not when he sees Sam's eyes wet from the strain, the pained curve of his back, the hand he wraps around Dean's hand, and presses in closer. The thumping in the back of his head only gets louder as he squeezes again, firmly, feels Sam convulse around him, this time his fingernails scratching Dean's hand as he holds it there, holds it closer. He will do anything for this, Sam will do anything for this, and the two thoughts run together and merge, until he's not sure what any of it means, who wants it the most, who needs it.

Sam's still pushing upwards, powerful muscles of his chest and throat working against Dean's hand, and the temptation is there, will always be there, to take it all, a horrifying impulse that consumes him with loathing, but that doesn't disappear. He could crush Sam with just a little more. Sam's the most vulnerable he's ever been, lost in this, caught in a world where he can't even breathe, can't protest, can't push him away. It's the closest he'll ever get to having Sam in a way Sam can;t deny, and the knowledge of it is a jolt to his nervous system, breaks through that impenetrable wall between them, tosses him into the fray. It's an effort to loosen his fingers, to let Sam gulp in air, to tilt his chin up so his airway isn't crushed even a little.

He smears away the semi tears around Sam's eyes, holds his mouth close enough to breathe the air that Sam exhales, cradles the base of his skull in one hand, hips still working, folds his other hand around Sam's dick, so hard just from this, and Sam pushes into his hand. "Once more," he says, barely audible, against Dean's mouth. The words are cracked and painful, and Dean can feel the blackness building up behind his eyes again, the wave of unreality threatening to take him away. _No,_ everything in him says, but Sam's saying yes, Sam's _asking_ , Sam needs this from him. Dean's stolen so fucking much, he can give him this. He can do it. He wishes to the bottom of his shriveled hear that he didn’t want to.

He's slipping away from it, Sam's face is distant in his vision, the only thing he can see is the already marked length of Sam's throat, only thing he can feel is Sam's hand folded around his, relentlessly, remorselessly, press of his fingers to Dean's. He's fucking mechanically now, feels like hours have passed, when it's barely been minutes, and Sam's pawing at his own cock now, has it in hand, and Dean moves on autopilot. Folds his hand one time more around Sam's throat, his own airway spasming in sympathy, at least that's what he thinks because he can barely breathe himself now.

Sam relaxes around him once more as Dean tightens his grip, his hand speeding furiously on his dick as though he's trying to get off in that moment, slackens for a second, and Dean's fucking him as hard as he can manage, knees sore, holding his own breath as though in parallel, watches Sam as he flushes across his cheekbones again and chokes a little more as he comes, Dean letting go at the same instant, watching Sam lose sight of the world as he tightens impossibly around Dean, digs his heels into him as he arches back, and Dean's hand goes automatically to Sam's dick, bats aside Sam's fingers as he finishes him off.

He doesn't really remember coming, remembers Sam pulling him in, hand on his ass, on his chest, smoothing over his face as he says something, voice so low and quiet that Dean can't hear a word of it. Just remembers almost blacking out, and when he's back seconds later, he's on top of Sam, mouth tucked into the side of Sam's neck.

He can't see it, can't see the fingerprints, but he can feel the tenderness of it under his mouth, slips his tongue out to soothe the skin he can reach, and Sam shudders underneath him. There's a black pit inside Dean, and it's oozing out, crawling over his skin, settling on his back, everywhere he isn't touching Sam.

Sam's breathing is returning to steadiness, and he's holding Dean, has shifted him to the side a little, one leg thrown over his hips, a hand in his hair. Sam knows better than to try to speak much, and Dean has nothing to say, nothing that won't crawl out of his throat and probably emerge as a wet scream of the kind they know from hell. There's a familiar prickling at the back of his skull, behind his eyes, and he can't let it out. Sam won't judge, but that's not what Dean's afraid of.

"Hey," Sam says, and his voice is ghost-like, wafts through the air, only Dean close enough to hear it. Dean'll kill him if he says thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> This is purposefully CNTW. There is under negotiated kink, dubcon regarding one character's willingness to perform a specific kink (Dean choking Sam) and while neither of them are drunk, they have both drunk specifically to facilitate the encounter.
> 
> Comments (including concrit) deeply appreciated, it's been a long time since I've done this!


End file.
